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MR. ROBERTS: Why–I–that is–

THE PORTER
(taking compassion on MR. ROBERTS’S inability to continue). Says he wanted to surprise her.

MR. ROBERTS: Ha–yes, exactly. A little caprice, you know.

THE CONDUCTOR: Well, that may all be so. [MR. ROBERTS continues to smile in agonized helplessness against THE CONDUCTOR’S injurious tone, which becomes more and more offensively patronizing.] But I can’t do anything for you. Here are all these people asleep in their berths, and I can’t go round waking them up because you want to surprise your wife.

MR. ROBERTS: No, no; of course not. I never thought–

THE CONDUCTOR: My advice to you is to have a berth made up, and go to bed till we get to Boston, and surprise your wife by telling her what you tried to do.

MR. ROBERTS
(unable to resent the patronage of this suggestion). Well, I don’t know but I will.

THE CONDUCTOR
(going out). The porter will make up the berth for you.

MR. ROBERTS
(to THE PORTER, who is about to pull down the upper berth over a vacant seat). Ah! Er–I–I don’t think I’ll trouble you to make it up; it’s so near morning now. Just bring me a pillow, and I’ll try to get a nap without lying down.

[He takes the vacant seat.]

THE PORTER: All right, sah.

[He goes to the end of the car and returns with a pillow.]

MR. ROBERTS: Ah–porter!

THE PORTER: Yes, sah.

MR. ROBERTS: Of course you didn’t notice; but you don’t think you did notice who was in that berth yonder?

[He indicates a certain berth.]

THE PORTER: Dat’s a gen’leman in dat berth, I think, sah.

MR. ROBERTS
(astutely). There’s a bonnet hanging from the hook at the top. I’m not sure, but it looks like my wife’s bonnet.

THE PORTER
(evidently shaken by this reasoning, but recovering his firmness). Yes, sah. But you can’t depend upon de ladies to hang deir bonnets on de right hook. Jes’ likely as not dat lady’s took de hook at de foot of her berth instead o’ de head. Sometimes dey takes both.

MR. ROBERTS: Ah! [After a pause.] Porter!

THE PORTER: Yes, sah.

MR. ROBERTS: You wouldn’t feel justified in looking?

THE PORTER: I couldn’t, sah; I couldn’t, indeed.

MR. ROBERTS
(reaching his left hand toward THE PORTER’S, and pressing a half dollar into his instantly responsive palm). But there’s nothing to prevent my looking if I feel perfectly sure of the bonnet?

THE PORTER: N-no, sah.

MR. ROBERTS: All right.

[THE PORTER retires to the end of the car, and resumes the work of polishing the passengers’ boots. After an interval of quiet, MR. ROBERTS rises, and, looking about him with what he feels to be melodramatic stealth, approaches the suspected berth. He unloops the curtain with a trembling hand, and peers ineffectually in; he advances his head further and further into the darkened recess, and then suddenly dodges back again, with THE CALIFORNIAN hanging to his neckcloth with one hand.]

THE CALIFORNIAN
(savagely). What do you want?

MR. ROBERTS
(struggling and breathless). I–I–I want my wife.

THE CALIFORNIAN: Want your wife! Have I got your wife?

MR. ROBERTS: No–ah–that is–ah, excuse me–I thought you were my wife.

THE CALIFORNIAN
(getting out of the berth, but at the same time keeping hold of MR. ROBERTS). Thought I was your wife! Do I look like your wife? You can’t play that on me, old man. Porter! conductor!